The Sweet Smell of Victory
by NancyY
Summary: The master spy and his intrepid partner embark on a perilous rescue mission of the aromatic kind.


Title: Sweet Smell of Victory  
  
Author: NancyY  
  
Timeframe: Marriage is common knowledge.  
  
Rating: PG

Summary: I believe I wrote this little piece of fluff for a challenge. The master spy and his intrepid

partner embark on a perilous rescue mission of the aromatic kind.

Feedback: If you read, please review. Thanks.

SMKSMKSMKSMKSMKSMKSMK

"Amanda, are you sure about this?" Lee crawled behind the gazebo, his hands and knees pressed into the damp, clinging, mulch. It was cramped and cold, and he tried not to think about what else might be lurking in the dark. After several minutes of squinting into the gloom, he sat back on his heels and tried to wipe the slimy grass, leaves, and other indefinable things from his hands. "Can you roll a flashlight back here? It's too dark. I can't see anything."  
  
"What if we can't find it?" she said. "I don't want to think that it's out there somewhere, suffering. It would be our fault. You need to find it."  
  
He felt like pounding his head against the white lattice, but settled for grabbing the flashlight as it skittered by and switching it on. What was he supposed to do if he found the thing? "Do you see it?" Her voice drifted back. Sure, she was impatient. She could afford to be. She wasn't the idiot crawling around the shrubbery.  
  
"No," he said through gritted teeth. "A little patience would be--"  
  
A low-slung flash of white galumphed by, brushing his arm. He reared backward and fell over, the flashlight flying out of his grasping hand. "Ouch."  
  
"Sweetheart, are you okay? What happened?"  
  
Now she was worried? A little late. "Fine, fine . . . it just went past me. Did you see it?  
  
"No. Come out of there."  
  
Great.  
  
Praying that he didn't run into it again on his way out, he slithered past the rose bushes and out onto the freshly-mowed lawn. His eyes watered, and his nose began to run. Was it hay fever? Could it be a cold?  
  
No. It was his arm.  
  
He'd been skunked.  
  
"There it is, hurry!" Amanda aimed her flashlight at the little beast waddling in circles on the lawn. "Oh, that's pathetic. Go help it."  
  
The skunk tottered in tipsy circles, bumped into the gazebo, ricocheted off the ornamental rocks, and finally came to a sudden, painful halt when it ran headfirst into the rough trunk of the ornamental plum tree.  
  
How it could breathe with that yogurt cup stuck on its head?

Sizing up the situation, Lee took charge. "Well, what do you want to do?"  
  
"Me? Uh-huh, you're the one who spilled the garbage and couldn't take the time to pick it all up. It's your fault--you fix it."  
  
"And how am I supposed to do that?"  
  
Amanda pointed. "You just walk over there right now and pull it off."  
  
"No way. You gotta be kidding. I'll get sprayed." He looked around for an escape, but the little stinker's whistling wheezes pulled his attention back to the problem. She was right; he couldn't leave it like that.  
  
Mustering all his courage, and holding his breath, he approached the target. Just one more step, Scarecrow. Quiet and careful. That's it. Easy does it . . .  
  
"Lee!" The little skunk raised its head at her exclamation and turned toward him.  
  
"Please, be quiet." He reached for the cup with a trembling hand.  
  
"I don't think they can spray if they don't have time to aim." Amanda was always helpful, and full of fun little facts. Quick, then.  
  
He snatched the cup and tried to dive out of range.

The skunk trotted across the lawn and disappeared under the fence. Lee sat up and smiled, waving the empty Yoplait cup over his head in triumph, but grimaced when his wife backed away, her hands over her nose and mouth. "Amanda, what's wro--"  
  
It hit. Horrible, just horrible. The stench ripped through his sinuses and burned his eyes. Choking and gasping, he peeled off one layer of clothes after another, until he knelt, shivering, on the damp lawn, wearing nothing but his blue boxers and a delicate sheen of Ode De Skunque.  
  
He had to do something, quick. "Get out of the way. I need to get to the shower, fast."  
  
"Oh, no you don't, you're not going through the house like that." She reached for the hose. "Use this, while I get the tomato juice."  
  
He stared at the garden hose in horror. He'd freeze to death. It would be a cold, ignominious, and smelly end. So long, Scarecrow. Gone, but not forgotten, his essence would linger on. And on . . .  
  
An hour, two cans of tomato juice, and an entire bottle of shampoo later, he was feeling better. He pulled the threadbare terry robe closer across his chest, and waited for Amanda's decision.  
  
She paced in front of him, sniffing. "Better, I think. But I can still smell it."  
  
"Come on, Amanda, have a heart. Can't I just come inside? It's late and I'm freezing." He leered at her. "I can think of several ways to warm up."  
  
She backed away. "Oh, no. You still smell . . . you can't, we can't--"  
  
'Don't you say we need to share? Everything?"  
  
"Not this!'  
  
"Everything."  
  
He lunged out of his chair and grabbed his wife around her waist, pulling her against his damp, aromatic body. "Everything," he murmured as he captured her lips. He felt her body melt against his, the passionate kiss ending only when the supply of fresh air ran thin.  
  
"Now what do we do?" She squinted at him through tearing eyes.  
  
There was always a silver lining. He took her hand and guided her through the kitchen door. "How about an nice, warm, long shower?"

The End


End file.
